


wolf caught in a thicket

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anger, Blood, Bondage, F/M, Gen, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:13:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tamara finds Sam Winchester tied up in a basement. She's not pleased to see him. Pretty soon the feeling is mutual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wolf caught in a thicket

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nonnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonnie/gifts).



> Written for the SPN anon meme.

She finds Winchester tied to a beam in the middle of the basement. He’s sitting on the concrete, arms bound behind and head sagging against his chest, and a lesser person would be forgiven for thinking he’s asleep, but she sees the stillness coiled in his shoulders, and she knows.

She’s still running high on adrenaline and rage, rage at the shifter she’s just mowed down with silver and the trail of death it’s left behind and every damn thing that came before that. She takes a good walk around the room to make sure there are no nasty surprised waiting, keeping well away from Winchester as she does it. She gives his ropes a hard look, too. The one who tied it knew what he was doing; Winchester won’t be getting loose anytime soon.

When she’s sure the room’s clear, she stalks right up to him and kicks him in the knee. He grunts. He must figure the game’s given away, because he looks up, wary, unafraid. It takes him a few moments peering through what dim light the murky windows let in to recognize her; his eyebrows rise when he does. “Tamara,” he says.

“Winchester,” she says. She remembers him, the shaggy younger brother, the one some said doomed humanity and Isaac, too, opening that devil’s gate. Whether that’s really how the story went, Tamara’s never been comfortably certain; Gordon Walker made a hell of a dodgy witness even on a good day.

“The shifter?”

“Dead, as I’m sure you heard.” She has a clear enough memory of Sam, though, all height and angles not quite grown into yet, earnestness burning in his eyes. In a glance she can see the height’s the only one of those he’s retained.

He shifts against the ropes binding him. “You gonna set me loose?”

“You shot that Palmer women,” she says. She thought maybe it was the other one Sam’s running with, Campbell. She doesn’t think so now.

He shrugs. “She would have pulled the police in. Shifter would have disappeared, who knows when we would have found it again.”

“The police were a bit confused,” Tamara says. “All these slit throats, and then a shooting? With a silver bullet, no less. Show our hand to civilians, do we now?”

Another shrug. She’s starting to hate every rise and fall of his shoulders. “Subtlety isn’t something I’ve ever really aspired to.”

She loathes him, him and his insolence and his unconcern and how he sits there alive, loathes him with a fresh and specific loathing that she’s never felt over vague rumors of apocalyptic wrongdoing. Gordon was right, she thinks. Isaac was right.

Oblivious, he shifts against the bindings and says, “So, anytime.”

Tamara pulls her knife from its sheath, advances on him, and the stupid man doesn’t even flinch as she advances on him. She crouches six inches from him, shifting the weight of the knife back and forth in her hands. “The two dead witnesses in Shreveport,” she says. “Those were yours, too.”

He seems to have caught wind of the fact that she isn’t pleased. He hasn’t gotten brighter over the years, has he? Yet he doesn’t look afraid. Pensive, she’d say. “They were in the way.”

“And you’re in my way now, Sam Winchester,” she says. She twists the knife, watching light glint from the blade. Sam eyes it and then her again. Unafraid, and Tamara suddenly wants very much for the this man to be afraid. She presses the flat of the blade to his throat and watches his adam’s apple bob.

“Why’s it you’re still alive?” she asks. “Why you?”

“Lucky,” he says, defiant.

“Lucky.” She snorts. “Not like those two in Shreveport. Or the police detective in Biloxi, beaten bloody and half his ribs broken. That was you, too. Wasn’t it.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“Inconvenient, were they?”

“I kill monsters. I don’t have to care.”

She angles the blade into his skin, presses hard enough to draw blood. A line of it wells up under her blade. He shudders. “And yet you haven’t turned that gun on yourself yet?” He swallows, convulsive, and the motion satisfies something down deep. Tamara presses a fraction harder. “Suppose I just keep leaning on this blade. Suppose it slips right through the skin and on into your throat. Do you want that?”

The motion of his throat against the blade brings a little more blood out. “No.”

“You walk this earth when others that ought to be living are dead.” She slides the blade across his throat, drags the the tip up to the socket of his jaw, leaving a scarlet trail.

He shivers again, but he smiles through it. “I guess that means you do, too.”

Sudden, without thought, Tamara flips the knife, fisting the handle and driving it straight into Sam’s thigh. He yells, and the shock in it curdles her anger. She sits back on her heels, all her rage sitting sour in her throat. She pulls the blade out – drawing another ragged cry from Sam – and wipes the flat against his jeans, one side and then the other.

His partner will find him. And if he doesn’t, well. That will inconvenience Sam quite a lot, won’t it? She holsters her knife and climbs the stairs.

END


End file.
